


Firefly Lullaby

by manarai



Category: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon | Pretty Guardian Sailor Moon
Genre: F/F, Gen, Hotaru-centric, outers family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 15:56:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3214958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manarai/pseuds/manarai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tomoe Hotaru - such a nice little girl, isn't she?</p>
<p>Text first published on tumblr</p>
            </blockquote>





	Firefly Lullaby

She rememebered more of her past lives than the others did. Or maybe not; maybe what they remembered was not really more of actual time than in her own memories, not in absolute terms, only their lives themselves were longer, they had more to choose from to retain in their present minds, more good things to remember and to forget. For her it wasn’t ever much more than the apocalypse itself, the end coming almost immediately after her own beginning. Her own time has always been painfully relative. She’s been the unwelcome guest, the party crasher, the thirteenth fairy at the christening of the little Princess; cursed to curse her, so she did. 

She remembered it all. She’s only never told anyone.

To suddenly have more time – it seemed like a blessing, a superpower. All the time in the world and living it, day by day and as herself, with no alien whisperings in her head, no evil presence behind her shoulder, no artificial tissue in her body. She dreamt less of this past now and the scars were gone too. Apparently if you performed a surgery in utero, the baby was left with no scars when they were born, so she learned – it still happened, the defect had been there, it’s all in the medical history to see, but the baby is all right now. Just herself and the warrior of destruction, her mirror image, sleeping peacefully till the right time came. Let her sleep.  
Sometimes Hotaru thought Setsuna understood her. But then Setsuna used the here and now in quite another way, more refined, less urgent. The perpetual visitor, that’s what she was: grateful for the invitation, but afraid to outstay her welcome, careful not to intrude. Hotaru wanted it all, wanted it now and with vengeance, wanted to live each day as if it were her last, because she knew all too well that it could end – it could easily end any day now; she’d drop the glaive and it would be real, like she remembered, the ashen taste in her mouth, the taste of worlds destroyed. But she didn’t think that, she didn’t want to tempt the fate by thinking it too loudly, just in case it worked. Whenever she noticed her thoughts stray that way, she would start to hum, or even sing something quietly, nonsensical words jumbled together with some random melody built on scraps from Michiru’s violin practice. Let her never awaken. Let it always be summer, with those absurdly short firefly nights.

It felt good, like egoism.

These two were egoistic as well, in their own way – a special kind of egoism, similar to how it worked for the rest of the world, only for each of them it was focused on the other one, not on herself. They lived for one another only, revolved around one another ignoring such well-established physical concepts as fundamental forces or Kepler’s laws; but then, the attraction was so strong there that apparently it could distort traditional physics. Sometimes Hotaru thought they didn’t really want her – not really, not want, not her – only each of them thought the other did and so it happened. But this was her life now, and her time, and her place in the world, so she loved it, cherished the fact that Michiru and Haruka would die together, kill for one another, would betray and kill others to be together and would even go as far as to make a home for one another. There were no limits to them, really: Haruka would sometimes refrain from singing in the shower, and Michiru started practicing her violin only after 9 a.m. on weekends. They would flip a coin to decide who was to collect the clothes scattered randomly around the house for washing, then discuss it some and by the time they decided on the victim the laundry had already been done, because Setsuna had all the time in the world, and they would both take it outside, a bit sheepish, shake out the sheets together and hang them on lines. Droplets of water were clinging to their faces and hair and they were laughing and kissing when the job was done and everything billowed in the wind like miniature sails, basking in the sunlight as their ships were underway to safe havens, the way she saw them in picture books. Only their hands were cold afterwards, but they didn’t mind and neither did she. 

Hotaru understood her role as a child in this uncommon family very well, or so she believed: they wanted to play house and she was game. She was to be watched closely as she grew, to ensure she wouldn’t go berserk, and then she was supposed to grow up. And she would; she would turn out all right. Each morning she smiled at her reflection in the mirror, grateful to see the goddess of death still asleep, with her mouth slightly open and her hands relaxed, not clutching anything. Another day of the here and now; she would be all right, she would. 

It was pretty ridiculous, really, all this mama and papa stuff. But it was expected, it was good, and she complied. She felt loved, of course she did, like a child would; happy and warm, humming under her breath. She was theirs to keep, for as long as they would. Or until she actually turned out bad, in which case she would be theirs to deal with. Sometimes the other one was stirring: Hotaru remembered that feeling from the past, imagined it was much like an unborn baby moving in their mother’s womb, a part of her, but not really; another person, her eternal companion on the other side of sleep. May she never awaken, may it be like this forever; and once again she fell back asleep with a gentle sigh, the warrior of rebirth. Let her sleep.

She liked braiding Setsuna’s hair – long minutes would pass as they talked of life and physics in quiet understanding. Her own hair stayed the same length, which was a good sign, considering. And she liked to listen to Michiru play; the music stirred something inside of her which was so unmistakenly Hotaru that it hurt sometimes, but it was the good kind of hurt. Haruka was the best to simply be with – she didn’t mind her hanging around the garage and every once in a while asked her for a spanner or a rag, quick. It was nice to take part in fixing things. Hotaru decided she wanted to fix things too, sooner than later, and by herself.

She remembered the glaive, icy cold and sharp, the blade too heavy for the slim pole and too heavy for her weak hands. It was so easy to drop it; almost too easy. She’s never told anyone how envious she was of their talismans, each of them a natural extension of their personas. The mirror was elegant and intimidating, the sword brazen and resolute, the orb mysterious and sorrowful. The glaive remained alien to her.

They wanted to make the most of the sunlight, this could be the last warm day and they had to enjoy it while this autumn was still golden. There was a picnic in the park, blackcurrant juice in their glasses a deep shade of purple, almost glowing in the sunlight, like a precious gem. A kite flew on the wind, probably for the sake of Haruka feeling like a proper papa as well – or rather how she imagined a proper papa should feel, because she never got to fly kites with her own father. But then neither did Hotaru, so they were even. She rememebered the man who used to be her father once; an odd mixture of gentle hands, silvery hair and evil eyes. She never knew her own mother. Nobody wore hats; windy is not a good weather for hats, even if it was all right for picnics. And there was ice cream later.

Her name was Tomoe Hotaru, she was too many years old in a too young body and she remembered the last two times that she died all too well. She had two mamas and one papa to love and cherish, a room full of Art Nouveau lamps to light up the night, an entire library of books waiting to be read and the whole world to get to know when she’s ready. And she had a life to live this time, for a change – a life she fully intended to live, to find herself something to fix on her own, to be needed.

One day the goddess of death would awaken, take over and drop the glaive; the world would be reborn and maybe so would be their little house and their little family.

But not today.


End file.
